Pro Ball Career
by Thought Reflex
Summary: Dean’s on a hunt with his dad which brings them to the Indianapolis Indians doorstep. All signs indicate that people will die, but this hunt is going to be more hands on then Dean expected and if the ghost doesn't get him, the team just might. Preserie.
1. First Base

**Rating**: PG

**Warnings**: none

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them.

**Requests:** I would love to hear what you think.

**Summary:** Sam's away at college and Dean's trying to make the best of it with his dad, when the hunt bring them to the Indianapolis Indians doorstep. It's not a pro ball career, but this time it may come close. Pre-series.

**Author's notes:** In the future this may show up as a part of the "Journal" series (if I ever find more time to write). This series will be a grouping of unrelated stories based on hunts Dean went on when Sam was in college. Whether or not they're actually based in the past or mentioned in the current series will vary between stories (if they ever exist )

Please enjoy.

**PRO BALL CAREER**

It was so damn hot out that the pavement was being obscured by the heat waves shimmering over it, and it wasn't even lunch yet. Sweat had been soaking into his shirt steadily for the last half hour, the leather of the seats that sat in the sun were scorching hot to the touch and he was actually, seriously, contemplating putting on a pair of shorts; which he hadn't worn since he was ten years old. Of which he didn't even own a pair.

Head lolling on the seat he looked over at the thrift shop beside the gas station they were currently parked and wondered, not for the first time in the last ten minutes, what the hell his dad was doing in there. As far as Dean knew they hadn't wrecked any clothing on their last two hunts so what the man was after was beyond him. He sighed, squirmed on the hot seats, and willed his dad to get back to the damn car with their drinks and food from the convenience store so they could get back on the road and get a breeze started. This state was brutal, and it wasn't even the height of the summer yet.

When his dad finally returned he didn't bother opening his eyes, the heat almost lulling him to sleep, but he reached out an arm in silent request for whatever cold beverage his dad had on hand. What he got was something that did not resemble a cold drink tossed onto his lap. He opened his eyes and glared down, then over at his dad in surprise.

"You feeling the need for some father son bonding time? Because last I checked football was more your style."

"Think we spend enough time bonding," John Winchester replied gruffly, the weather not doing anything for his almost permanently bad attitude these days. Dean sighed softly to himself and rubbed at his temple before picking up the well worked brown mitt from his lap. He turned it over once and then glanced at the plastic bag his dad had dumped in the back seat with a quirked eyebrow.

"Not that I don't appreciate the belated birthday gift, but what gives?" he held the mitt up imploringly and then, noticing one of the leather ties was loose, he began fixing it. "I don't think I can even remember the last time I played catch." Which is a lie, because he had played in gym class that one time in grade eight. The season had just started and his teacher had lent him a glove. He remembered getting in two games before they had had to move again. That was the only time he ever remembered playing. He remembered enjoying it, but not much else. He wasn't really one to follow sports.

"Well you better work on it then. Tryouts are tomorrow."

There was a moment where Dean thought his dad had actually spoken in another language.

"Tryouts? For baseball?"

"No, for synchronized swimming, I just thought the glove would be a good prop," he glared at Dean, his eyes ordering him to stop being an idiot because this was serious. Dean sat a little straighter.

"Sorry sir," he responded automatically, and reached for the bottle of ice tea his dad had tossed on the seat between them. "You took me by surprise." His dad snorted and started the engine, the Impala growling to life around them, and then pulled out onto the road.

"We're heading to Compton. Should be there by eight tonight. Tryouts start 9am tomorrow morning. That should give you a few hours to get used to the feel of the mitt and throwing. Can't do much about hitting though," he shrugged apologetically and Dean just snorted. As if it would make a difference.

"Whatever. It's not like I actually have to make it onto the team or whatever," he unwrapped his sandwich and took a big bite.

"You do have to make the team," his dad capped the lid to his own drink and finally settled into his seat while Dean stared at him stupidly. Was he serious? His dad looked at him and grinned. Dean hated that grin. That grin always meant Dean was going to have to work his ass off.

"The Indianapolis Indians have been a minor league team since 1902. In 1942 three team players died in the opening season. In 1962 one player died. In 1982 two more players died."

"And in 2002 more players could die," Dean finished for him and then took another bite of his sandwich.

"The deaths occurred in the pre-game season on their home turf, which means we need to be there. The Major League Scouting Bureau is holding a tryout camp. Scouts from all over are going to be there sizing players up for the minor league. If they see something they like they can all make offers," his dad focused on the road ahead of him, breaking the speed limit by a good fifteen miles per hour.

"So I need to try and get an offer from Indianapolis," Dean snorted. "No offence Dad, but the chances of that happening…" he shrugged. "Let's be serious about it. I don't even know the rules of the game, and the last time I recall a game being on the TV it was changed to infomercials for the rest of the night."

"Dean, its baseball. How hard can it be?"

"With a bunch of people who have been playing since they could walk and are trying for the million dollar career? Oh yeah, it'll be a breeze." His dad was serious about this though, and Dean was beginning to get nervous.

"Look Dean, this isn't the last resort for the case, it would just be easier for us to handle if we could get inside this way. If nothing comes of the tryouts then we'll just find another way, no big deal." Well, as long as that was the case Dean supposed he could play along. It could be fun even. His dad looked over at him, assessing. "Besides, you've got excellent reflexes, you're fast on your feet, your hand eye coordination is acceptable and you've been throwing knives and footballs since you were seven. What more do you need?"

"Chewing tobacco and a pair of cleats?"

"It's all in the bag."

Well then, it looks like this was going to happen.

OOooOOOoOO

Eight o'clock Saturday morning found Dean sitting in the Impala in Compton College's parking lot while his dad scouted out the area. In about ten minutes he'd be heading over to register for a spot in the tryouts and he was stuck between wanting to laugh at the entire scenario and wishing Sammy was here for some kind of dorky pep-talk. As it was Sam had been gone for nine months now without a word. That hadn't stopped Dean from checking up on him (the three times he'd been in the area and dad had given him the car for the night) though, and he still found himself twisting in the seat to toss a comment to his little brother in the back only to be met by no one.

Sam had always liked school sports; he probably would have been all over explaining the rules of the game to Dean. As it was Dean was working off the little league game they had stopped to watch last night and some notes from the internet. Tossing the ball with his dad had been easy enough and catching was a piece of cake once he got used to the glove and how it worked. He took a deep breath, finding his zone. He was going to have to be sharp out there to pick up the game as fast as possible. He was a Winchester after all, and if he was going to do this he was going to do it well.

"Areas clear, I doubt there will be anything we need to look out for," his dad declared and leaned in the open window to grab his coffee. "Let's go."

"Do these pants make my ass look big?" Dean grumbled as he rolled up his window and got out of the car. His Dad glared at him. Okay, so the time for joking was over then, whatever you say dad. He shrugged, fixed the worn ball cap on his head (who the hell were the Maple Leafs? Did people actually get paid to come up with names like that?) and tucked his mitt under his arm. It was time for business.

"Didn't think there would be so much coverage," he dad commented as they walked over to the registration area, nodding at the few local news cameras already at work.

"They're just hoping to get a glimpse at America's next Babe Ruth," Dean pulled the hat lower on his forehead. He didn't have to worry about being on TV as he doubted anyone who had met him in the past would make the connection between him and whoever he had been to them, but it wouldn't hurt to try and stay out of the media as much as possible. He wished he didn't feel so ridiculous in this uniform.

"Name and registration number," the woman behind the large foldout table held out her hand expectantly, not looking up. Players were milling about all around them waiting to be signed in.

"We're walk ins" his dad said, smoothly stepping into the role as Dean's 'manager.' She looked up then and glanced at Dean, who instinctively smiled charmingly. She didn't look too impressed but she pushed a piece of paper over to them regardless.

"Fill that out and provide identification please," she ordered, and then her eyes lit up as someone approached from behind. "Well aren't you the brightest ray of sunshine all morning," she declared, suddenly all motherly and flirtatious. Dean felt someone step up beside him and watched as a dark haired guy in a well pressed uniform leaned onto the table and laughed.

"Sweet talking will get you everywhere," he grinned at her. "You ready for the festivities?"

"I sure am. They're just beginning to trickle in now but so far there's nothing for you to worry about," she winked at him.

"Of that I'm sure," he smiled and cut a glance at Dean, sizing him up and then dismissing him in one look. "Do you have my number?"

"I do at that," she flipped open a file box and searched through until pulling out #23 and passing it to him with a couple of pins. "Here you are. Be sure to pin it to your front and back so the scouts can see you clearly."

"Will do, thanks Sonya," he turned and strutted off, Dean watching him a moment before turning back and signing the paper his dad gave him. He didn't know the guy, but he already didn't like him. Asshole.

"Can I see your ID please?" She more demanded then asked, and Dean slid it to her. Five minutes later had 'David Young' pinning his numbers to his uniform and looking around carefully as people milled about the stands. There were a lot of freakin' people here.

"What position did you tell them I played?"

"Everything except pitcher and catcher," his dad responded and Dean looked at him incredulously. "You'll be fine."

"Don't you have to specify a position?" His dad glared at him and Dean figured it was the same look he'd given the women at the desk when she had no doubt asked the same thing after Dean had wondered off. Well, any position it is then. "Right, whatever. I'm going to go see if I can find someone to warm up with."

"I'll be in the stands." Dean nodded. His dad was going to go watch him play baseball from the stands, with all the other parents and friends. Was it sad to say this was probably one of the most normal things they had ever done as a family? He swallowed thickly, wishing Sam was here to be a part of it. This was probably exactly like the normal he'd been craving his whole life.

There were players here that ranged from sixteen years old to thirty, some bouncing around with nervous energy and others finding their zone. He watched a group of guys, probably from the college even, as they split to go warm up their arms. Dean nodded to the odd guy out, catching his eye. _Wanna throw?_

A shrug. _Sure._

It was hypnotic, just tossing the ball back and forth and Dean found it ridiculously easy to focus on the task. This wouldn't be so bad. A horn went off and they stopped their game of catch to listen.

"_All players report to the Field. Try outs will begin in five minutes. All players report to the field."_

Dean walked over to his throwing partner and handed him the ball.

"It's time then," he grinned. "David Young," he introduced himself and held out his hand. The red head (what a shock of hair) took it readily and grinned widely, showing off perfect teeth.

"Will McRae. This your first tryout?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Nah, that's just a standard question," he grinned and began leading the way to the field. "What team are you from?" Dean balked.

"Uhh, I'm between teams now. I've been moving around a bit."

"I hear that. I just switched colleges and am still waiting to see where they'll sit me on the new team. If this doesn't work I'll head over to the Washington tries on the 26th." Dean raised an eyebrow at this and the guy shrugged good naturedly. "I'm good, but I'm also realistic. I might need as many opportunities as I can get."

"You been playing a long time?"

"Been throwing it around since I could walk. It's a family passion, but I was the only one with a real arm for it. I see you've got a good arm for it too." Dean shrugged at that and Will looked at him and snorted. "I see you're one of those guys that play down their skills eh? This isn't the place for that, so when you're tossing on the field make sure you get the full snap out of your wrist and you'll get their attention," he slapped Dean's shoulder and jogged off to the pitchers area while Dean just stared after him. Huh, nice guy. He headed over to the largest group of people, assuming they were the fielders.

"All right, we're going to do a roll call before splitting you up and getting into some basic drills. There's a lot to get through today so I don't want you taking your sweet time between drills. You finish and you set up again immediately. Understood?"

"Yes sir," he barked out automatically, and several heads turned his way. He looked at them. What? The man had asked a question and he sure as hell wasn't going to screw this up by not answering. Roll call started and people were being divided up efficiently when they finally came to Dean.

"David Young?"

"Sir?"

"Says here you play infield and outfield."

"Yes sir," he agreed and the man looked at him with a frown, and there were a few snickers from other players, though they were subtle. Dean wasn't impressed.

"You need to pick a position son."

"Well if I'm good at all of them shouldn't I get a chance everywhere?" They made less effort to hide the snickers this time, but the man in charge glared at the group and they shut up quickly.

"That's not how it works. I don't know why they let you sign up this way, but you're going to have to pick a field, right now." Shit, what to pick? Like he knew what he was doing. Out field would be the easiest as far as the rules went, but he was pretty sure his short arm would be in better shape then his long arm. Ah well, he was making it all up as he went anyway.

"Infield."

"Position?" He bit his cheek hard to stop the reflexive dirty joke.

"What are you guys most in need of?" Oh, he'd bite it harder next time. That earned him a chuckle from several of the scouts standing nearby and they shook their heads at him. He couldn't tell if that was good or bad but decided he should just make a choice and quick. "Shortstop will be fine I guess," he shrugged and hoped that smiling with confidence would convince them that he knew what he was doing.

"Get in the B line." Dean moved, and noted that the other players were beginning to size him up for real this time. That guy from the line earlier was there too and giving Dean the Harry eyeball. Dickhead.

Things progressed quickly from there and Dean relaxed into it, sharpened to the plays quickly. He watched the other players as much as he could, seeing how they moved, where they made their plays. It wasn't that difficult to pick up on at all. Catch the ball, throw it to the necessary base. Tag the runner low in case they slid yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. He became more comfortable with the throws after a few practices. He could snap it to first with ease and he was dead on every time. He could place to second and third just as easily.

The first time he took the position, standing where he thought he should and using the scuff marks in the dirt as indication, the ball flew right by him on the ground. He blinked after it. Shit, that was _fast_. He looked at the batter who was now at first to find him grinning maliciously at him. It was the guy from the line that morning and Dean glared at him, before grinning in what he hoped was a challenge.

It was on.

He threw himself at the ball every damn time because there was no way he was letting anymore by him. Not a chance, unless it was virtually impossible to get it. He thought he did okay.

They took a break for lunch and he found himself hanging around the batting area, watching that group beating away at the pitches the machine spat out. He stood there watching their stances, the way they gripped their bat, door knocking knuckles lined up, flexing the fingers just before the swing so the grip is loose and then step into it, watching the ball all the way. He could do that. A hand clamped on his shoulder, squeezing tightly a moment before releasing.

"Having fun?"

"Time of my life," he said, dryly, knowing his dad would probably see through it. This was a blast.

"You're looking good out there. Damn sight better then some of them. Keep it up and we might actually have a shot at this." Dean looked at him incredulously. Huh.

Later that night, after a long shower to wash away the grime of the day, he stepped out to find his dad cleaning their weapons on the bed, dinner sitting on the small hotel table. Beside it was a stack of papers.

"What's this?"

"Probationary starting contract for the Indians," his dad didn't look up from his task.

"Yeah? Sweet." He sat down to his meal, pulling the contract over. A thousand bucks a month and 20 bucks a day for food? Cheap, but more honest money then he or his dad made so he supposed he shouldn't complain.

"There's a couple other business cards and contracts there too. I turned them away but they were pretty pushy about taking their info. You made a bit of an impression." John looked up then, smiling at Dean with pride and something else Dean couldn't quite pin. Sadness? It wasn't important. He grinned smugly back at his dad.

"A bidding war eh? These people must be desperate for players." He flipped through the small pile: Charlotte Knights, Norfolk Tides, and the Richmond Braves. He pushed them aside and finished his meal.

"Says I need to be there for Thursday."

"We leave in the morning. If we share driving we can be there Monday night." Dean nodded. That would give them a few days to research the area and the situation, get their game plan in place.

He understood it was all just a job, and once they stopped whatever was killing people he would be back on the road with his dad. But when Dean finished his meal he was wound up tight and having trouble sitting still. The third time his dad glared at him he grabbed his phone and went outside, across the parking lot and parked it at a picnic table. Shit. He was signed up for the minor leagues! On one day of playing baseball. Yeah it was still on a tryout basis, but wasn't that like…some kind of record? _Him_ playing baseball as a professional. It was like the twilight zone or something and he didn't remember the last time he'd been this excited about anything. Especially not since Sam had run off to become a khaki wearing pencil pusher.

He stared at his phone. Fuck he wanted to call Sam. He'd stared at the damn thing every night the first six months after his brother had left, and every time he'd forced himself to put it away. Sam would call when he was ready. But now he was itching to tell someone, someone that mattered to him, about his accomplishment. Because let's face it, he didn't get many of these opportunities. This was huge bragging right material. If he ever needed an excuse to call his brother, something he could talk to him about that wasn't strictly hunting related (because Sammy wouldn't want to hear about that and it was all Dean really had to talk about) then this was it.

He flipped the phone open and dialled the new number to the house Sam was staying at. He'd only been there a month and Dean hadn't had the chance to take a look at it yet.

"Hello?" an enthusiastic guy answered, music blaring in the back ground. What the hell was that shit? He couldn't really hear the voice enough to recognize it through the god awful hip hop that was trying to make his ears bleed.

"Sam?"

"What? No, he's not here man, he went out with that Jess chick. You need him for something?" No, he was calling because didn't want to speak to his brother.

"Nah, its good. I'll try later."

"Hey, you want me to leave a message?" A bunch of laughing erupted in the back ground. Sounded like a big party. _Did_ he want to leave a message? He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple, the excitement he had been feeling draining out of him.

"No that's all right. I'll try again some other time."

"That's cool. Later," and the line disconnected. Dean stared at his phone a moment. Sam was out with a girl, probably to escape the party his housemates were throwing. He was busy, living his normal life. Dean wondered if Sam would consider having a professional ball player for a brother as normal. Probably not.

The next morning they departed early, his dad happily flipping through his journal and Dean trying to hide his moodiness as he sped down the highway. Indiana had better be ready for him, because he was going to hit them hard.


	2. Second Base

Thanks for the wonderful reviews!

I forgot to mention that this has only been edited by my self, and that is faaaaaar from my area of expertise. I apologize for all the grammar issues and if they are really bad then please let me know 

OoOoOoOoO

The drive to Indianapolis was long. No longer then he was used to, but longer because his dad had decided to spiral off into one of his funks. Dean was used to these by now, he had been dealing with them since before Sammy left them, and even more so after. All he had to do was make sure he followed orders and refrained from talking too much and things would be fine.

Yeah, he was used to these moods; it didn't mean he liked them.

It was dark by the time they pulled into the Knights Inn and booked a small room with a kitchenette for the week. When Dean wandered in he tossed his bag on the bed by the door, looking in distaste at the swirling purple, green and white duvet. He glared at his dad when he looked like he was going to argue over the sleeping arrangements and then grabbed the keys to the Impala from the plastic table sitting against the wall.

"I'm going to get some food," he announced and then left without waiting for permission. They'd barely stopped all day and he needed some space. It never used to be so difficult sharing such long rides with his dad and he didn't know how to deal with this new found need for independence. He'd like to blame it on Sam's influence, but he knew himself enough to know it had more to do with Sammy's absence.

By the time he returned his dad had set up shop properly and Dean was more relaxed now that he had something to do. He set about putting away a few groceries before he could bake the chicken and make a salad. He looked at his dad's set up from the corner of the kitchen, noting where the articles had been pinned to the wall and which books lay open on the tiny table. John had always liked spreading his information out so he could see it all at once. He said it helped him sleep.

"I want you to go to the library tomorrow, see what you can dig up," he announced abruptly. "It opens at ten."

"What will you do?"

"I'm going to check out Victory stadium, see what I can track down from there."

"Shouldn't I go with you?"

"No need. I can get in to see the sights and speak to the general manager about your contract. We can cover more ground this way."

"We have until Thursday Dad, it's not like there's a big rush." His dad looked over at him then, his face stern and lips pressed together in displeasure. The decision had been made, Dean shouldn't argue. He nodded his acquiesce and turned back to the salad, hearing his father sigh behind him.

"We could throw the ball around after dinner, keep you in practice," he suggested quietly from his bed. Dean finished the salad. His arm still ached from all the throwing he'd done on Saturday but he understood the offer for the apology it was and agreed. Maybe it would loosen up his shoulder anyway.

OoOoOoO

The next few days had Dean wishing for his own car. Lately, having his dad drop him off and pick him up was becoming more of a hindrance then a benefit. At least to him, because he was the one stuck sitting around for hours on end waiting for his dad to return. Hell, times like this he considered getting a rental car, but there were so many complications with that he had never bothered suggesting it. Public transit didn't work so well for his situation and Taxi's were a waste of money unless really needed.

Regardless of this he had taken the bus to the home of Lloyd Baristo instead of waiting for his dad to finish up his own interview on the other end of the city. The meeting hadn't turned up a lot other then the in depth remembrances of the good old days when it cost two dollars to see a game, and how a good beer after a game with the guys had made him feel on top of the world.

Lloyd had known all three players that had died in 1942, though not very well.

"They stuck together those three did. Nice enough fellows I guess, so long as you stayed out of their way and didn't offend them none. I was only on the team a season when they went and fell off the roof of the announcer's box. It wasn't far of a drop, but apparently it was far enough to end them. What they were doing up there I have no clue. They were veterans on the team though. Heck, I think Gary Lawrence had been on twenty years before that night. That's what you get for not minding your drink though. Terrible tragedy."

An hour later, and Dean had still been sitting there sipping tea, because old Lloyd was a stream of fascinating never ending stories. He'd jumped when his phone rang.

"Dean," He'd barked into it.

"Where the hell are you?"

"Lloyd Baristo's."

"I told you we'd do that this afternoon."

"While I sat around and did nothing all morning? Relax, I'll be back in an hour." He'd hung up to find Lloyd watching him closely.

"Don't you let your boss be pushing you around young man. I might not know you well, but I can see that you're competent enough to do your own interviews." Not really knowing what to say to that Dean had excused himself and taken the two busses back to the hotel. His dad hadn't said anything about his solo interview when he'd gotten back to the hotel, and Dean hadn't been able to get a handle on whether the old man was actually angry with him or still just in a funk.

Thursday morning had finally rolled around and Dean was so glad to be doing something he didn't even complain about the 5am wake-up call. The stadium was only seven miles away but they needed to go over some things before he left for his first day.

"You're going to be training hard with these boys this week. The pre-season starts on Sunday so I want this wrapped up by then."

"Yes sir."

"Keep your eyes open, because I won't be there to cover your back." His dad gripped the steering wheel a little too hard after he put the car in park and Dean didn't know where this sudden onslaught of tension was coming from, but it could be cut with a knife. "You have your supplies in order?"

"Dad, I've got everything I need," Dean politely informed him. Sam and his dad, they were both so bad at saying what they felt needed to be said, even when it became obvious what they were thinking. "This isn't the first solo hunt I've been on; I know what I'm doing." His dad's eyes hardened and apparently Dean had said something wrong.

"I know what you're capable of Dean, we just don't know all the facts about this case yet and I don't like you going into it blind." There wasn't anything to say to that though, because they both knew John would be allowed in the stands anytime he wanted and there were visiting hours for him to enter the locker area. Unless he snuck in this was how it was going to be, which wasn't half bad as far as Dean was concerned.

The locker room was loud, even though it was seven in the morning. Original team members strutted about like they owned the place and the newbies were easy to pick out as far as Dean was concerned, because they were quiet and were looking around like they were unsure what to do. Dean waltzed past several players in various stages of dress, nodding when they did and automatically sizing up everyone in the room.

"Hey Young!" he turned around to see a familiar red head grinning at him and headed over, because judging by the way everyone was sizing everyone up it was probably safer to know someone right off the bat, regardless of who they were.

"McRae. Congrats on getting in man," they slapped hands together in a firm shake.

"Same to you, though after watching you the other day I can't say I'm too surprised," he grinned.

"Uh, right. Thanks," he noticed that Will had conveniently led him right to his locker, so he began to unpack. McRae laughed.

"We'll work on teaching you how to take a compliment later. You been around long?"

"Got in a few days ago, checked out the sights. Nice town."

"Nice park here too. Built new in '96 to try and draw more people out to the games."

"Did it work?"

"On some days it does, others not so much," he grinned at him and then looked over his shoulder, a frown quickly forming across his lips before disappearing. Dean looked casually over his shoulder at the dark haired man who just entered, noting that the blue button up shirt did a decent job at hiding the beginnings of a beer gut. He stopped where a few players were huddled and handshakes and good natured back slaps were passed around. Dean went back to his locker.

"Who's that?" He asked casually and Will looked at him a moment before answering.

"That," he nodded in the general direction, turning his own back to the group, "is Dean Markson. One of the teams head scouts. You met his son, Eric Markson, at the tryouts Saturday."

"I did?"

"Yeah, he hit that speed grounder off me that went by you that first time. Remember? Dark hair, a smile like he's figuring out the best way to bar-b-q you?" Oh, he remembered now. Dean hadn't actually spoken to the guy, but he'd dealt with him several times on the field. Asshole.

"He anything like his dad?" Will looked over his shoulder and then dropped his voice.

"Dean used to be a big player. Made it a year in the pro's before he blew out his knee in a car accident. He's a tenacious bastard when he wants to be, and I'm guessing that's were his kid learned it." Will looked over his shoulder again as laughter filled the room. "I'd watch out for him if I were you though."

"Yeah?" Dean tensed.

"Yeah. Eric should have been a shoe in for the Indian's, but then the managers decided to make the final selection between having a new first baseman, or a new shortstop. He's playing in Toledo now, and you're here."

"Huh. Isn't that just peachy," Dean grumbled.

"All right listen up!" a short barrel of a man stormed into the room and looked around with beady eyes. "Orientation in ten minutes. I want you in your uniforms and ready to play because we're on the field right after. Let's move people!" He was gone as fast as he came in. Dean raised an eyebrow at Will, who laughed and shook his head.

"Man, what did you do, just wake up and decide to play baseball on Saturday?" He chuckled. "That's Al Higgins, Assistant couch. Piss him off and you're in a world of trouble."

"Right, I'd better not push my luck then."

Dressing turned out to be a bit of a pain in the ass. He quickly threw the jersey on over his shirt and changed into pants and cleats, but there were no places to safely conceal a knife while in uniform and dragging a gun with him onto the field was just not going to happen no matter how much he wanted it to. He felt naked without his weapons, which was disconcerting. He wondered if he could figure out a way to slip a knife somewhere in his glove and he looked it over critically as he walked to the field.

The day passed quickly, but it was long. He wasn't used to standing around in the hot sun for hours on end and he had a feeling that he should have worn sunscreen even with the issued ball cap. Despite that he couldn't deny enjoying it, a lot more then he had that first day. The more he played the more confident he became. His hitting wasn't stellar or anything, but he was getting on base more often then he wasn't, which stood for something if Will's yammering was anything to go by.

The team interactions were another story though. Some warmed up to him immediately, but there were a few, guys he noticed speaking to Markson several times throughout the day, who were taking little digs where Dean was concerned. He didn't have to see the sympathetic looks from McRae to know it was mainly him being picked on. The thing was that Dean didn't really care, which seemed to make them all the more irritated as the day went on.

"Hey Young," Markson called as they were finally leaving the field for the day and Dean looked over at the guy to see him beckoning.

"Yeah?"

"You clean up nicely," he said, looking Dean up and down in a frank manner that had Dean wondering if the man knew his shirt was second hand. Harrison and Reid stood just off to his side and the grinned smugly. Dean refrained from rolling his eyes, barely.

"Yeah, you should see me when I use the polish," he grinned, not really trying for charming and somehow knowing he sounded a teeny, tiny bit antagonistic.

"Must be nice to have a uniform that fits eh?" he winked and Dean straightened a little more. "Have you met Harrison and Reid here?"

"Not formally," but Reid had tried to take him out with a curve ball earlier that afternoon. Dean looked at the two guys and nodded, not offering his hand. They'd gone past that point now and he could recognize when people were playing favours for possible career advancement. He hoped they realized what Markson was doing before it was too late.

"Well if you have any questions you feel free to ask them. They're good guys, always around to help the rookies out. Right?"

"You bet" "Never a problem" they chorused.

"Isn't that great," Dean smiled thinly. "Well, if that's all I've got to get going," he nodded all around and headed for the locker room.

"Young!" Hey huffed a sigh of agitation and turned to meet Kreig and Dawson, both of whom were as tall as his brother. Freakin giants.

"Yeah?"

"Nice work out there today man!" Kreig stuck his hand out and shook Deans with a little too much gusto. Dean blinked.

"Thanks."

"Seriously man, you're fast! If you keep this up you'd probably even be major league fast," Kreig enthused.

"Which won't mean much unless you improve your hitting," Dawson stated, "which is kind of shit, but I can see why they made an exception for you in this case."

"You can?"

"Hitting can be improved on easily enough, and we can all see that you have the knack just not the logistics. But you're a natural when it comes to short. You don't even think and the balls at first." There was a touch of admiration. "Shit, if you can keep up as well as you are they might even forget about placing you as a hitter and designate you as short stop."

"Nice job out there," Delgado popped in, slapping him on the back as he passed and Dean nodded at him.

"Hey listen, the guys are going out for a beer. You want in?"

"Ah dude, I'd love to, but I'm going to have to pass tonight."

"Hey no worries. We'll be at Pollick's of you change your mind.

"Thanks." When he got to his locker he saw Will standing around, waiting for him. He hadn't seen him since lunch. "Hey man, where've you been?"

"Working with Ramirez and Borne. You going to Pollick's tonight?"

"Nah. There are some things I need to take care of." Will shrugged good naturedly.

"All right. See you tomorrow then," he grinned and flipped a bag over his shoulder before heading out. By then Dean was one of the last in the locker room. Once dressed properly (weapons exactly where they were supposed to be) he spent two hours walking around, checking the place out and looking for anything suspicious. He didn't find anything, but he made friends with the two night guards and custodian Jack, who eyed him strangely at first but, after having a discussion on how lemon juice removed stains from clothing almost as well as bleach, he warmed up to him. Yeah, Dean had the touch.

None of them knew about any legends or myths about this stadium or the old one and he finally admitted there was nothing more to see and met his dad out front. He hadn't seen him at the stadium at all that day.

"Hey," he greeted.

"How'd you do?"

"I couldn't find anything suspicious, but it might not show up until Sunday," which was something they had discussed as being a possibility. "You find anything?"

"Maybe. I've got the information at the motel," his dad looked sideways at him. "What do you want for dinner?"

"We've got salad in the fridge and there's a Thai place on the way back. Mind stopping for some spring rolls and noodles?"

"Sounds good."

"I made some friends today," he announced casually, looking out his window and therefore missing the grimace his dad couldn't quite hide. "The security guards don't know about any murders, they've only been on for about five years. They did say that the old night watchman goes by the name of Harry Golford, and he retired in the area a few years back."

"I'll check him out tomorrow."

"Good. A couple more meetings and a surprise bottle of Morgan's best will probably have them letting you in past closing time, if we ask really nice," he smirked and his dad grinned back and shook his head in amusement. Dean had always been able to charm people where John couldn't, and he couldn't deny that it had been handy in the past.

At the hotel they were happily inhaling their food while Dean looked over the notes his dad had made. Their collection of knowledge basically summed up to this:

Fact: someone had probably been murdered way back in the day and their spirit was hanging around for vengeful purposes.

Fact: all the new victims died on opening game day, but not necessarily on the field. Three had died falling from the announcer's box. One player died from falling down the stadiums stairs after the place was closed. No alcohol had been reported. The last two to die had been beaten to death in the showers after the game, supposedly with baseball bats. There was no evidence to link the murders to anyone and a lot of speculation as to why they were both in the shower so late that night in the first place. Suffice to say the only thing linking all the deaths where that they were exactly twenty years apart and all occurred in the stadium

Fact: This was a new stadium, so they were unsure if the possibly angry spirit was even still around.

Fact: The place was huge

Fact: They wouldn't know how to kill this thing until they knew what it was and how it came to be there. If it even was there.

Fact: Dean was sore and for one of the first times in his life he had bruises from something that wasn't from combat training, wrestling with Sam, or fighting evil.

"Lloyd said that the three guys who fell off the roof were close friends, but that they weren't the type you wanted to piss off," he mulled out loud.

"The one who tripped down the stairs was reported as having a drinking problem. His son didn't come out and say it, but I got the impression it wasn't always a happy household when the bottle came out," his dad frowned at his spring roll. "And no one really knows why the last two where in the shower that night, or if they do know then they still aren't talking."

"Think it was a hate crime?" Dean asked. "People found out they were playing for the home team and decided to put an end to it?"

"Authorities had looked into that and there was no evidence that either of them were involved."

"Well not everyone advertises that sort of thing," Dean shrugged and his dad looked at him in silence for a moment, which made Dean want to squirm even as he quirked his eyebrow.

"It was a very intense investigation. If there was any evidence that they were in a relationship it would have come up somewhere."

"So they were just two guys in the shower late at night after the stadium closed," Dean frowned disbelievingly at this. "There must have been other people still around, so why kill them? Was there anything hinting at them not being the upstanding moral citizens that they were believed to be?"

"Not unless someone knows something and never spoke of it, I'll look into it tomorrow though."

"And I'll ask around some more at the stadium," Dean announced and they both retreated to their thoughts.

OoOoOoO

The next day started out much the same as the previous: Get up, go play baseball. It became interesting that afternoon when the team was divided and pitted against each other in a mock game. It would be the first full game Dean had played since eighth grade and he was thrumming with excitement, though containing it as best as possible from his casually slouched position on the bench.

McRae passed him the bag of salted sunflower seeds and Dean took a few, sucking them into his mouth and once the flavour was gone spitting them out. There was no way he was going to chew them up just for the seeds. His sports bottle, filled with holy water, sat behind his head and he tapped his foot to the beat of _Escape_ and hummed under his breath to calm himself down.

"Borne's up, Young's on deck," coach Higgens belted out and Dean turned his head to watch as Borne went up to bat, swinging his bat to let the pitcher know where he wants it.

"Young!" Dean turned quickly and looked at Higgens, who was chewing his tobacco like it was going out of style and looking like a grumpy old bitch.

"Yes sir?"

"I know you're not deaf boy, so why aren't you moving your ass on deck?" Dean blinked at him and looked around. He didn't see any damn deck.

"The batters practice box on field," Will hissed at him.

"Right, on deck, sorry dude, I got distracted for a second there," he passed the coach and grabbed randomly at a bat, feeling the short mans eyes on him like a hawk.

"I swear boy, if I hadn't seen what you could do on that field I'd tell the world you'd never even watched the sport before last week."

"Awe coach, you don't have to get mean about it," Dean winked at him and left the dugout to stand 'on deck.' What a stupid phrase.

He struck out, and damn if that didn't piss him off just a little.

"Having a little trouble with your batting there son," Markson belted out from the other end of the bench when Dean marched back down.

"Pretty sure I could hit you just fine," he grumbled under his breath before looking over to the man.

"Nah, I was giving the pitch a break, I'll get back into the swing of things in no time," pun intended. He smiled politely, because even though he had signed the contract he could still be kicked out of this league and Markson was looking for any reason to do just that and drag his own son over to this neck of the woods.

And Sammy said he had no political graces. He turned around to find coach Higgens and McRae, the only two people with him at that end of the bench, staring at him. He frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"Jesus Christ!" Higgens hissed as he stomped over and tried to get all up in his face, which was difficult as he was almost a foot shorter then him. Dean instinctively wanted to shove him out of the way but forced the urge down with effort. People being close like this: not his thing. Personal space man, read the memo. The man looked more incredulous then angry though, and McRae was shaking his head like he'd seen Casper the friendly ghost just slam one into the bleachers.

"Whatever it is coach, it wasn't me," he tried the grin on for size again.

"Just when in the hell _did_ you start playing Young?" the man demanded, and Dean snorted.

"What kind of question is that coach? You insulting my skills now?"

"No, I'm asking you a question and I want a straight answer."

"I've been playing for years coach."

"Don't you lie to me boy!" He hissed, took a breath and then stepped back to give Dean some space. Dean didn't feel any less tense as he quickly reviewed the cover story he and his dad had designed from that file in his mind. "David, son, the truth isn't going to kick you out of this league. It doesn't have to go any further then you, me, and the head coach." Dean arched an eyebrow and looked over at Will.

"Hey, I grew up with seven brothers. I can keep a secret like the best of them." The tall man insisted and Dean frowned.

"I just don't see why it's important coach."

"If I knew where you needed work to improve I can make sure you get the extra practice. I can already tell by your batting technique that you're not a hundred percent confident, though you do a damn fine job of making it seem that way." Dean shrugged and grinned, hoping to distract the man he started to tell him he'd been playing since he was sixteen or so.

"If the next words out of your mouth ain't the truth I will heap a world of hurt on you boy. I'm a human lie detector and you will not make me happy!" Tenacious little bull dog. Dean frowned, because this wasn't going to plan, but hey, when in Rome…

"Yeah, all right, fine. I kind of started playing about a week ago," he shrugged casually, "give or take a few days."

"Jesus boy! What? Did you just wake up one morning and decide 'Hey, think I'll try for the big leagues today' or something?"

"I was tired of construction," he smirked.

"I knew it," Will grinned at him broadly and slapped him on the shoulder. "The way you've been watching people…you ever pick up a bat before Sunday?" not to hit a ball with he thought uncharitably.

"Do mailboxes count as targets?" Or, you know, the undead?

"Well isn't that something," Higgens snorted and looked him over like he'd never met him before. "Tell you what, I'm going to talk to coach and get some time with you tomorrow in the batting area. We'll switch up between McRae and a machine for the throws and help you figure out how it works. A little bit of advice though," he made sure Dean was looking at him before continuing, "don't let word of this go around. After seeing what you can do on a field after a week of playing…you're going to be a real contender, but competition is tough and Markson's out for blood. You watch it, okay boy?"

"Yes sir,"

"All right, take the field," he ordered and Dean did just that.

OoOoOoOoO


	3. Third Base

WARNING: This chapter makes passing reference to non-consensual sex (not a main character).

OoOoOoOoOoO

"David! David Young! Over here!" Dean pretended he didn't hear the media calling for his attention as he stepped out of the Impala. He quickly walked away, hearing his dad already speeding off to avoid any questions, and stepped through the stadiums employee's only entrance. When he heard the door click locked he breathed a little easier knowing that he had managed to escape the interviews. For the last two days they'd been trying to speak to all the teams' probationary players and Dean had been able to avoid them completely until now. He was probably already mentioned in the news from the tryouts the previous week, but the best plan was to avoid the media as much as possible. Who knew they could be so tenacious?

One of the conditions for him joining the team had been that they not post his picture beside his profile on the net until it became official that he would remain signed on with the Indians. You couldn't use random identities when people all over the country would recognize you.

"Whew! I ain't never seen a young boy as good looking as you try so hard to avoid the camera," an amused voice called out from just down the corridor. "What are you afraid of, America's Most Wanted figuring out where you're hiding?" she chuckled to herself as she ambled towards him.

"I'm afraid the American public wouldn't know how to handle too much of this," he gestured at himself and grinned, shifting his torn and beaten second-hand pack on his shoulder.

"Ah, so you're doing a public service then," she paused close to him, her large bulk blocking a good portion of the narrow corridor, and looked him over with an appreciative eye.

"Mmm mmm, I don't get many visitors down here so early in the season, it must be my lucky day."

"I'm David Young," he held out his hand politely and she shook it firmly, damn near crushing his fingers.

"You're someone, but a David Young? You're going to have to work a little harder for me to believe that honey," she reached behind him and grabbed the broom that had been resting there.

"Now why exactly would you think that?" His smile came out a little forced now and he knew it. Her sharp eyes met his for the first time as she gazed up her pointed nose at him, before she rolled them and shook her head.

"Now honey, you don't have to worry none about Moira spilling your secrets. I have a fair share myself that I wouldn't whisper to no one," she winked at him and turned away. "Come with me sugar, I've got something to show you," she ordered and he shifted uncertainly on his feet. It was never a good idea to follow a complete stranger in the best of times; while on a hunt it was even more risky, even if she looked completely harmless.

"Sorry Moira, but I've got to get ready for practice…" he trailed off when she looked over her shoulder at him disapprovingly.

"Look, I ain't going to hurt ya, you big baby. What could an old crow like me possibly do to a young stallion like yourself hmm?" She continued walking away from him. "There's something I think you would be interested in seeing, something that you might be looking for," she hinted, and he reluctantly followed her. Man, shadowing an old broad in a maintenance uniform at six thirty in the morning was so not his scene, but the more she spoke the more she intrigued him and now he was curious. Although technically that wasn't saying much, because he was naturally inquisitive to the point where he willingly dove headfirst into any mystery. He'd just make sure his dad never found out about exactly how he came across some of his information.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Ah ah, you don't get to ask me any questions until I know your real name," she grinned wickedly at him, and now he could see the wrinkles that clearly lined her eyes and mouth. He looked ahead of them as they left the areas of the stadium he was 'allowed' to be and entered places he had explored on his first night here. She wasn't asking too much of him, since she had already personally debunked his alias, so he didn't see any reason not to introduce himself properly.

"I'm Dean," he offered and she stopped, turning abruptly to face him and stuck out her hand. He shook it again.

"Moira Buckley, I'm on the night staff," they were moving again a moment later.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you know I was lying about my name?"

"I've been watching you Dean, watching you play, but mostly watching you when you're not playing."

"You stalking me Moira?"

"You're a little young for me Jailbait," she chuckled, loving the attention as she entered a stairwell. They went up two flights, Moira huffing a bit at the end, and then entered the main public corridors that led to the stands. The snack shops and fan stores were all closed and the lights were off, leaving them to find their way through the deserted place via the sunlight streaming in from the windows.

"I don't understand why you've taken an interest in me," he tried to get her story, and she happily went along with it, smiling a knowing smile.

"I've been working custodial services for the stadium since '73," she took a right into a back hallway. "The job ain't the greatest, but the people I meet and the sport itself makes it worth my while." She took him up another flight of stairs, unlocking a door he had broken into that first night, and led them towards the announcer's box, which stood above the scoreboard behind the field.

"Sounds exciting," he tried to sound enthusiastic.

"More exciting then you would think," she responded, loosing her cheer. She grasped his arm and pushed him into the announcer's box, shutting and locking the door behind them. She rounded on him, her brown eyes narrowing. "Tell me Dean, what is it that you're really doing here?"

"I'm just playing ball Moira, though why I'm here with you at this precise moment I'm still trying to figure out," he stepped casually out of her reach, keeping his eyes trained on her but still aiming to look casual. He didn't sense a threat, but it always paid to be cautious. She seemed to pick up on his sudden focus and backed off a step, her eyes softening.

"Oh Dean, you are a cautious boy for your age. Why did I bring you here indeed," she moved over to the glass window and looked out. The morning light cast the infield in shadow, making the grass of the outfield seem even more vividly green then it was. Dean stepped up beside her. "I've worked for this stadium a long time Dean, and I've seen some things here that I know people wouldn't believe unless they saw it themselves," she clucked, her hands coming about to rest together. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the haunted tone to her voice.

"Why did you bring me here Moira?" He asked softly, and she smiled faintly.

"You're different Dean, and I noticed it the moment you entered the stadium that first day. Now I'm taking a big chance going on my feelings here, but I don't think you're here for the love of the game, not to say you aren't one of the best rookies we've seen in a while," she winked at him. "But you're looking for something else, and I think I know what it is."

"You know about the spirit?" He decided to come right out with it so they could get to the bottom of this. He'd never been one for tact when it wasn't truly needed.

"I do," she agreed. "Nasty thing," she shuddered.

"When did you see it?"

"It showed up at the season start in 1982,"

"Where you here when it killed them?" She looked over at him then, her eyes hollow with the memories as she shook her head in sadness.

"They deserved to be punished, but nobody deserves an end like that."

"Did you see it kill them?" He asked again, needing to know what she saw, what it appeared like, and she shook her head.

"No. It was late, after midnight, and only four of us were supposed to be in the building taking care of our normal duties. The guard was off by the entrance and Walter and Jimmy were taking care of a bathroom on the main floor. I was going to do a last clean up of the visitor's bench when I saw them." Her eyes began to sparkle with moisture and he really hoped she wouldn't open the water works on him. "I don't know what they would have done if they'd seen me, and I was so terrified after I realized what was going on, what they were doing… They were monsters you know. Just, evil."

"What happened?"

"Mitchell and Tobias were two seniors on the team. They'd been around for a while, but it was made apparent the previous season that they wouldn't be sticking around much longer. Hatherson was a rookie that year, and he outshined them both that night. He had a bit of a mouth on him, born of being told he was going to do great things no doubt," she shook her head sadly. "Mitchell and Tobias, they had him pinned down, bent over the railing so he couldn't get away and they were…they…" Dean didn't really want to hear what they had been doing to the kid.

"I think I understand what they were doing," he said, not unkindly but maybe a bit harsher then intended. She nodded.

"When they were finished they went off to the locker room, just dumping that boy in the dirt like a dirty rag. I tried to help him, but he was horrified. He didn't want anyone to know, didn't want to report it. He made me promise not to tell anyone, made me swear I wouldn't, and then he left," she sighed. "I cleaned up the mess and continued on my rounds. Jimmy found the men in the shower, but when I went over to see what was going on I saw a man in a uniform, one the team wore back in the twenties. He was walking away down the hallway as if he belonged there. I followed him, called out to him, but he ignored me. He went right onto the field and then just disappeared. I've never seen him since."

Dean stared at the field out the window, giving her a moment as his own thoughts raced. She had seen the ghost, and if her story about the men raping that kid were true then there was the possibility that the ghost leaned towards violent targets before going after an innocent. Was it choosing its victims out of revenge for what had happened to him when he died?

"Moira, did the spirit have a number on the back of his jersey?"

"Yes. It was 26."

"Is there anything else distinguishing about him that you remember? Anything that might help identify him?"

"No, nothing that I could see," she looked over at him then, appraisingly. "So I was right about you then. You believe me."

"Well Moira, we both know I'm no ball player."

"Now that I do not believe," she smiled at him, throwing a wink in for good measure. He nodded and turned to leave. "Dean, there's one other thing," he turned back and she nodded at the field. "This stadium was built at a different location from the one they were killed in," which he had already known. It was one of the things he and his dad had to consider when they came here: would it still exist in a different stadium?

"Yeah?" he encouraged her.

"They brought the dirt and grass over from the original field before knocking it down, and laid it out here. See that brown smudge down there, just off centre field?" He looked, eyes scanning carefully until he did see a small speck of brown. He nodded. "That was at the old stadium too. It was there as long as anyone could remember, and they left the original chunk of brown grass there when it closed, but it came back. It's a perfect circle just under a meter wide, and no matter what anyone does it will not go away. They gave up trying a few years ago."

"Is that were the ghost disappeared?"

"Yes." He looked at the spot so far away, feeling the whole hunt coming together, trying to recall other situations like this one off the top of his head. Ghosts could latch onto things even after their bodies were gone, maybe this guy had died in that spot at the old stadium, or maybe he had simply been a centre fielder back in the twenties. Whatever it was, it was a lead.

"Moira, I don't know how you recognized that I was looking for this, but everything you just told me has been a great help." He saw that she was quickly pulling out of her memories and back into the state of mind she'd been in when they'd first met.

"Well honey, you can make it up to me later," she winked. "Right now you better hightail it to the lockers though, or you're going to be late for your practice." Shit, she was right. He ran all the way back but was still didn't make it on the field in time. By the time he finished running up and down the bleachers with coach Higgens hollering at him like this was some sort of punishment (the man had no idea), the practice was well on its way. Now it was just a matter of seeing when he could take a closer look at the brown patch off centre field.

OoOoOoOoO

He hit his first home run that practice. It wasn't so hard he decided, but then they had to get all fussy on him and request that he hit grounders and actually try to aim them. He was still trying to just hit the damn ball in the first place! The only difference between his ability this day and the one previously was that Will and Higgens had explained a few things about batting to him, and Dean was nothing if not a proficient learner; his life usually depended on being able to pick up new skills.

His dad still hadn't come by to see a practice, not even as a manager, and after every successful hit Dean silently debated whether or not he'd mention them to the old man later that night, or if he'd just keep it to himself. He wasn't a child anymore, after all, and he didn't need his father's approval over something as trivial as baseball.

It hadn't stopped Dean from telling him about what he had learned that morning over the phone though, and he would bet his right nut his dad was already halfway finished digging up the new information even before he'd hung up. Well, maybe his right nut was extreme, but it got the point across.

He called up Sam's number and stared at his brother's name on the tiny blue screen, his finger hovering over the Send button. Then he huffed and snapped the small device shut, shoving it deep into his pocket and pretending that he didn't feel it dig into his leg with every step.

He had to get back to practice.

OoOoOoOoO

"Yeah?" Dean yanked the phone from the front of his jeans without bothering to check who it was; there was only one person calling him these days anyway.

"I looked up the player's number you gave me," his dad announced, his voice sounding slightly hollow on the other end. "James Travel, first basemen. Played in the opening game 1922 and then dropped off the map completely, no word to anyone about where he might be going."

"Was there an investigation?"

"Resources were stretched thin at the time, and there was apparently no reason to suspect foul play," his dad snorted his disbelief of that one over the line.

"Does he have any family?"

"He hadn't married, but he'd moved into Indianapolis with some of his cousins. I just finished speaking with Grace Morris, the daughter of one of them. She didn't know much. Says the family had determined that his disappearance was never investigated because of racial issues at the time," Dean frowned and glared at a ball lying in the corner of the empty locker room. "The only other thing I could get out of her was that he may have had an issue with gambling, but again no records."

"So he could have been killed because of his skin colour, or because he wasn't keeping his end of a bargain," Dean sat on the bench and rolled his shoulder, jeeze it was sore today.

"I doubt we'll find more then that," his dad wisely proclaimed and Dean sighed. Well, at least it was something.

"We have any idea how to end this thing? There's no body to burn that we know of, but it's probably safe to say he was killed at that patch of dead grass."

"I'll look into it."

"Right," Dean responded, but his dad had already hung up. "By the way, I had a pretty good day, thanks for asking," he muttered, snapping the phone shut just as the door to the lockers burst open. Some of the guys barged in, already dressed in their street clothes.

"David!" Reid called out when they saw him. "You standing us up again tonight or what?" They all stared at him, good naturedly sure, but there was that underlying tension that said 'if he didn't go out he just might not be considered a team player.' He grinned.

"Or what," he responded and McRae came over and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Great! Need a lift?" He thought about calling his dad for a lift to the bar, like a teenager without a license. There was no way he was doing that, hell, he could spare the change for a taxi ride back to the motel.

"A lift would be good," and just like that he was herded off to the Brazin Bull, which apparently had the best steak in town. And a bull riding machine. It was the traditional bar to visit the night before the opening pre-season game and it was packed with locals when they arrived. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet.

"Hey Martin!" Delgado yelled out to the chef at the open grill as they passed and the big man looked up, waving a giant set of tongs in their direction.

"Delgado! You going to win me the game tomorrow or what! I got a hundred bucks lined up on that one."

"Damn straight we're going to win," Delgado grinned a full, blinding white smile and slapped Dean's shoulder. "Martin, we'll need two rookie specials tonight, think you can handle that?"

"Oh sure," the man looked between Dean and Will, both of whom were being jostled around in merriment, "if you think they can handle it."

"Better then last years batch that's for sure," Delgado grinned.

"Hey!" Dawson punched him hard in the shoulder on the way to the table.

"Ah, we'll see eh!" Martin turned back to the grill and Dean was herded to the table with all the care of the keg at a party. At least he thought so; he'd never actually been to a kegger.

"Rookie special huh? Do I want to know?" He parked it beside McRae, who was grinning broadly and happily accepting a beer sliding his way. Dean felt the team close in around him, almost uncomfortably close, as he'd never sat around a table for a meal with this many people before. Ever.

Well, live and learn. He took a big pull on his beer, and tried to look like he belonged.

He had less difficulty belonging after a six pound barely cooked slab of cow was thrust in front of his face with orders to eat the entire damn thing.

"What, no entrée's?" He smirked before tucking in and DAMN he hadn't eaten this much in…ever, but he'd play chess with the devil if he didn't eat every last bite with a smile. "What's for dessert?" he asked smugly after forcing the last bite down his throat, and prayed that it was just oxygen because he was close to exploding and it would not be pretty. He leaned back and looked down at his stomach, which was sticking out more then it ever had before, and grinned.

"Ahhh, who's the lucky father!" Krieg yelled and then rubbed Dean's stomach vigorously for the team's pleasure. Dean forced himself to bat the arm away with a simple 'fuck off' instead of instinctively grabbing it and twisting until something gave. He knew they weren't trying to threaten him or anything, but he had never developed that team spirit that seemed to ooze off them. That closeness that said randomly grabbing your teammates was all hunky dory. Regardless he accepted the beer passed his way, pretending that he was actually interested in consuming it.

"Oh god," Will pushed the last few bites away, looking a tad green, "If you make me finish that I'm going to piss in your shoes first chance I get," he declared to laughter all around the table.

"It's time for the Bull!" Krieg yelled and cheers went up around the table, and then the entire room and Dean startled as most of the bars patrons took to chanting. Chanting usually boded ill will as far as he was concerned.

"Bull bull bull bull!"

"This can't be good," Dean muttered to Will, who rolled his eyes as they were hauled to their feet across the open dance space, to a fenced area along one side. The mechanical bull sat proudly in the middle and a cowgirl with a skimpy button up blouse was polishing off the saddle with a cheeky grin. She winked at Dean as he was shoved into the gate.

"Are you people serious?" He asked the room at large, shaking his head and grinning.

"Bull bull bull bull…"

"All right all right!" He laughed and smoothly mounted the thing, figuring out where his feet and hands went. This wasn't his first time after all, and he'd made a few bucks in the past from places like this but he had the inkling that this wasn't going to end in his favour.

Three minutes later found him puking up his stomach into the pale provided after he was tossed off for a third time. People were cheering and clapping him on the back and _for the love of god let him puke in peace! _He gave them the expected grin all the same. As far as hazing went, it could have been a lot worse, like that cult he had tried to infiltrate in Virginia…oh, the memory sent him back to the bucket. Great. What a waste of a good meal. He heard them cheering Will now as the pitcher was tossed around behind him and Dean made his escape to the men's room.

"Here you go tiger," the busty blonde with the blouse unbuttoned to the point of indecency passed him a packaged toothbrush and miniature toothpaste with a wink.

"Must be my lucky night," he grinned, hoping the acrid smell on his breath didn't carry too far.

"Oh it could be, if you play your cards right," she sashayed away for his appreciative eye. He could get used to this baseball thing he thought as he tried not to grin stupidly around the toothbrush once in the bathroom. Will staggered in a few minutes later.

"What a night!" He declared, and then promptly threw up in the stall. Turns out he didn't get the tooth brush treatment, so Dean passed his over without comment and the understanding that they would never speak of this again.

By midnight Dean was well and truly tanked amidst a table of guys who had nothing but stories and jokes and pranks to talk about and not one of them cared to ask him any questions about his past. And if they did they pretty much lost their train of thought before he could lie to them. It was probably the closest thing to a group of friends he had had since he was sixteen. He wondered if this was what a frat house would be like, and if so he sure as hell hoped Sammy had signed up for one.

He could have done this all night. It was a nice change from heading to the bar solo. Not that that was a bad thing, most nights it worked in his favour. However, he could admit to his self that it occasionally got a bit lonely, and seeing other people laughing with friends sometimes pinged the nerves he worked so hard to ignore. Dad rarely went out for a drink with him, usually only if it was for business purposes. And Sam, well, enough said. So yeah, this made for a nice change, but he had an actual game the next day and he needed to get going if he was going to play half way decently.

"All right ladies," he stood from his seat and almost over balanced. Shit, he couldn't remember the last time he'd let go this much. His dad was going to tear him a new one. "Time for me to get some beauty sleep," he announced. By this point there were only seven guys left and they looked at him with varying degrees of alertness as they waved good riddance. He had a couple of words with the cowgirl, requesting a taxi be called to meet him out front and, tragically, declining her invitation to 'drive him home.' He bought her a drink though, and then counted the bills left in his wallet, hoping it was enough to get him back to the motel.

The night air outside the Brazin Bull was cool, but only because of the strong breeze that swirled the dust around in the parking lot. Looking up he could see a few stars and imagined just how spectacular they would look without all the light pollution. He walked to the end of the wooden porch to wait for his ride, slumping against the wall and forcing his vision to focus.

He wasn't sure if it was because he was drunk, or because they were just fucking good at sneaking up on people, but a moment later he found himself hauled around the corner of the building and slammed against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. He tried to lunge away, but without any proper leverage the two sets of arms pinned him in place pathetically easily.

"What the hell man?" He grunted, not at his most eloquent. He was answered with a fist to his stomach and as he tried to double over he was shoved back against the wall, smacking his head in the process. He looked up to try and get a glimpse of the third guy that had punched him, and glared at his general outline.

"Okay," he coughed out and took a deep breath. "This stopped being funny before it started Markson," he spit out, and then smirked in the darkness as the giant man in front of him paused. Oh yeah, it looked like they hadn't expected him to figure out who they were. And if it was Markson in front of him then it was probably Harrison and Reid pinning him to he wall like a freaking fly. Shit, he was never drinking that much ever again, and now he had the headache and bruises to prove why it wasn't a good idea. And this attack wasn't even sobering him up properly.

There were a few moments of silence from their little entourage, only his heavy breathing (damn this guy packs a punch) and the wind disturbing the air around them before Markson got real close, sticking his face right into Dean's.

"Dude, tic tac's" he advised. He was expecting the blow to his stomach this time, but not the level of ferocity behind it. He sucked in a deep breath of air.

"Don't think I don't know you're up to something smart ass," Markson growled in his face, and Dean thought the man put an extra effort in breathing on him.

"Hey man, I'm just here to play ball," if these guys didn't loosen their grip soon he was going to loose feeling in his hands.

"But you won't be for long," he growled and Dean held in a laugh, because it was true. He would never be allowed to consider an actual career in the pro's, he had too many things to hunt, people to save, shit to do.

"Man, I'll be here for as long as I plan," he announced smugly, "which will be longer then Eric." Even in the dark he could see the anger on Markson's face, and this time Dean laughed after straightening from the punch. Oh this was going to hurt in the morning. Then a horn blared from just around the buildings corner and his three attackers all glanced in its general direction. It was the perfect opportunity for Dean to do something about this situation, perhaps break a couple arms in retaliation, but he sensed that it was over now anyway.

"That'll be my ride," he informed them, straightening within their hold. Markson glared at him.

"Please, don't let us keep you," he nodded at Reid and Harrison, who promptly threw Dean to the gravel before stepping away.

"You watch that sharp mouth of yours boy," Markson loomed over him, "it's bound to get you into trouble." Then he hauled back and booted Dean in the ribs, not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to sting. The car horn bleated again and they were gone, leaving him there in the dirt. Shit, he really wanted to kick that guys ass! Son of a bitch.

He stood up, feeling the pull of new bruises, and quickly shook the dirt from his clothes. He walked around the corner as though he didn't have a care in the world, seeing the three men standing by the door to the bar. He considered whistling a tune just to piss them off more, but decided against it. A smirk and nod would have the same effect and as he smoothly jumped into the back seat of the waiting taxi he saw Markson's face turn a darker shade. Oh yeah, he was angry. Damn Dean was good, though he figured there must be something fundamentally wrong with him because he could never stop himself from purposely pissing off certain types of people. It was a gift he supposed.

His dad was still sitting up when he walked through the motels door, the shotgun lying within hands reach and photocopies littering the table he was parked at. He looked over at Dean, who had thankfully sobered up by then (mostly) before turning back to his papers.

"Find out anything useful?" Dean shrugged out of his jacket, and glanced at his old man briefly. Of course he would expect Dean to be working this whole time. God forbid he have a little fun once in a while.

"I can eat six pounds of mostly raw beef," he announced casually, and smirked when his dad snorted in amusement, relieved that he wasn't going to reprimanded for not focusing on the job. "You find anything useful?" Dean removed his outer shirt, already feeling his torso stiffening up, and tossed it in the corner with his other things. John looked over at him again, this time letting his gaze linger in that assessing way that always made Dean want to stand to attention. The mans gaze focused on his arms a moment, but Dean refused to check to see if the bruises were showing from beneath his sleeves, lest he draw more attention there.

"Maybe. I need to double check some sources, but I think I know how to get rid of it. I need you to make sure there are some paranormal readings at that patch of grass."

"No problem. I'll do it before the game tomorrow."

"Good," John declared and looked over at Dean again, eyes sharp. "Is there anything I need to be aware of?" Dean raised his eyebrows at the question.

"No, nothing related to the case that I haven't told you already," he began moving to the bathroom, intent on retreat and a hot, hot shower. He felt his dad's eyes on his back. "I'm taking a shower," he announced, unnecessarily, and closed the door behind him. Thank god he'd implemented the policy of putting their entire first aid kit in the bathroom upon their arrival at all hotels, so his dad didn't see him popping a few muscle relaxants. He'd replace the pills later in the week.


	4. Home Plate

First thing upon his arrival to the stadium Dean grabbed his makeshift EMF detector and marched out to the field, intent on scanning the dead patch of grass that refused to disappear. The entire walk from the dug out had the thing pinging in his ear as he diligently scanned the area, but when he approached the dead grass it went haywire.

"Jackpot," he muttered, and grinned to himself.

"What is?" The question was so unexpected it had Dean whirling around and stepping into a defensive stance before he realized what was going on. Will stood their looking at him as if he'd grown a third arm, his red hair covered by a blue hat declaring 'FBI' in bold letters.

"Jesus," Dean glared at him, pulling the headphones from his ear, "is it really necessary to sneak up on people like that? You scared the crap out of me."

"Thank god, I was beginning to think you were made of stone or something," the man grinned, and then looked around them. "What are you doing out here?" His eyes fell on the patch of dead grass.

"Just getting ready for the game, psyching myself up," he grinned, hoping it didn't look maniacal or anything. Will didn't look overly convinced so Dean hurried on to change the subject, distract him. "What are you doing here man? I figured you'd still be nursing a hangover."

"Ha, not likely. We McRae's were born blessed. I've never suffered a hangover in my life," he grinned and slapped Dean on the shoulder before nodding at the pitching mound. "Bull riding, however, is a different story. I want to loosen up before people start arriving to watch, because mark my words they will be all over me if I have a bad initial warm up." Dean looked at the glove Will had tucked under his arm.

"Need a catcher?" Will grinned again (did his face never hurt from all that smiling?).

"Knew I could count on you Dave. I dropped a mitt at the plate," and they were off. After the first pitch Dean tossed the ball back, shaking his head. He had thought the pitches came fast when he was at the plate, but damn if it wasn't scary being directly in the balls line of fire.

"You sure you don't even want a mask man? I'd hate to mess up that pretty face," Will laughed at him as Dean scowled.

"Won't be a problem if you do your job right."

"Yeah yeah, just be aware that I'm going easy on you at the moment."

"Easy? My Grandma could throw faster then you right now," he goaded. The next one stung his hand. Oh, he had better not miss any of these things or he'd be out for the count, but he refused to wear that catching gear on principle. He wasn't a wuss.

They were there for a good ten minutes before Dean noticed a camera crew in the stands, aiming to get a good angle on them. Dean was hit with the urge to smile and wave at the camera, which warred with his need to stay out of the press. Not that it would do much good here, seeing as it was a televised game. He wondered if he should wear a fake moustache. Will noticed them too.

"You ready to call it quits? Games in an hour and a half, and I'm hungry," he announced, trotting up to the plate and Dean stood, stretching out his back, arms over his head. "Jesus," Will suddenly exclaimed, and Dean looked around sharply, wondering what the problem was. It was then that he noticed his dad in the visitors dug out, leaning against the fence, just watching them. But that apparently wasn't what had grabbed Will's attention. "Guy, you're stomach is the colour of my shirt, what the hell happened?"

"Mechanical bull ring a bell?" Shit, his shirt must have ridden up.

"Seriously? You must bruise like a peach," he whistled, and turned when he heard John finally approaching. The older Winchester looked between the two of them.

"Sir," Dean stood straighter at his approach. John looked at him, and then at Will, and then he actually smiled, just a little, but it was there.

"Next time he catches for you without a mask, try to aim for his nose," he grinned and Dean snorted as Will laughed.

"Way to keep your top player safe," Dean rolled his eyes.

"My only player more like," John held out his hand to Will. "John Young."

"Will McRae. So you're the manager and dad eh? Keeping it in the family," he looked between them.

"You have no idea," Dean allowed without thinking, and then stiffened as his dad looked sharply at him. "We have some business to discuss?"

"Yeah. Contracts and things," John agreed and Will took that as his leave, departing to the change room. His dad nodded towards the visitors dug out, where the cameras couldn't see them, and Dean noticed a small bag sitting on the otherwise empty bench. In half an hour team aids would be bringing out the bats and water bottles and sun flower seeds for the game and the keeners would begin to fill the stands. Dean was stiff as anything from his private party the night before, his headache hadn't gone away yet and the heat from the day lingered even though it was almost the dinner hour. And he was hungry.

"Readings are positive," he stated, telling his dad about the patch of grass and John nodded before tossing the bag to him.

"Yeah, I thought as much. If we're right then the spirit came here with the old stadiums soil. There are six consecrated iron nails in there," he gestured at the bag. "They need to be driven into the ground at the sight of the murder. Make sure you hit all five points of the pentagram and put the final one at its center." Dean felt the weight of the blessed nails.

"Can I do this now? Get it done and over with?" At his dad's raised eyebrow he rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn't be that simple.

"Spirit needs to be present for the final nail to be driven in. Besides, it could be a hazard to the outfielders if you place them now."

"Right. So we'll take care of it after the game."

"Yeah," His dad agreed and then tossed Dean a fresh water bottle. "Holy water, just in case." Dean nodded his thanks.

"You going to stick around?" He asked, keeping his voice even, casual, as his dad looked out at the field.

"Got nothing better to do," he announced gruffly and then turned to walk away. "See you after the game," he ordered and Dean turned to head to the home teams locker room, suddenly feeling unexpectedly nervous. Pre game jitters, he never thought he would suffer from that. When he came into the room he saw Will sitting in front of his locker, apparently waiting for him.

The guy looked at him and then tossed him a bottle of pills. Dean looked at the label: muscle relaxants. He raised an eyebrow.

"Those bruises didn't come from that bull," he announced, looking at Dean carefully. "You had anybody check them out?"

"I looked over them, nothings wrong," but he took two of the pills and chugged them down with the holy water before tossing the pills back to him. Amen.

"I know you're not going to tell me where they came from, but if you need someone to cover your back you just say the word man," Will declared, looking at him imploringly. Dean was stunned, and apparently Will could tell because he decided to respond by grinning and tossing Dean the pills again. "Keep them man, I've got a few extra bottles kicking around. Want to grab a bite before the game?"

"Sounds like a plan."

OoOoOoOoO

Laughter and yelling, punches to the arms and some ass slaps followed Dean into the locker room after the game. Everyone was still cheering their victory, hooting and hollering even though the game had ended ten minutes before.

It had been close, the final score ending at 4:3 and Dean was shaking a little from the adrenalin rush. All the people cheering, the lights bearing down on them, the music and the taunting: God he loved the taunting from the crowds, though to be fair they hadn't had any reasons to heckle Dean yet so he found it easy to be swept along in the rush of things.

The fact that he played freaking awesome didn't hurt either! He even clocked a nice line drive right over the third baseman's head and though he didn't score a run himself, it had been a sweet hit that had brought one of their own safely to home plate. Man he was pumped! And Will had pitched the last two innings, making a good showing of it too, which was awesome, because hey, he was a nice guy. And Dean had always wanted nice people to do well.

"David!" Coach Higgins hollered in his ear from right beside him slamming a hand onto his shoulder and squeezing. "God damn boy! Nice job out there!" He grinned and shook him a little. "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it," he grinned broadly "but you are going places! We'll get you there, just you wait and see," he grinned again and then stormed off to congratulate some other players. Dean tracked him a moment with his eyes, wondering if he really meant what he said.

He looked around the room, trying to keep an eye on all the people. There were camera flashes going off everywhere and he laughed as Delgado and Dawson emptied their water bottles over McRae's head.

"Young!" He heard a voice calling from across the room and looked over to see a reporter waving his way, her smile seductive. Yeah, she was definitely interested. "Can we have an interview?" She called out and, though it saddened him, he pretended not to hear her. She beckoned and he looked over his shoulder, making as though someone was calling him from out of her sight. 'One minute' he held a finger up to her, smiling, and then disappeared around the lockers and out the door. He quickly stepped down the hallway and then emerged at his teams dug out. The stands were pretty much empty except for the last fans trickling out and the clean up crew was already running between the seats.

He sat on the bench, leaned back, and just breathed.

This was normal. This was what normal people did, what they had, what they struggled for. He thought he could get used to this. How hard could it be? There was a lot of travelling, but he had lived on the road his entire life. He would make honest money and he would have an exciting career. People would want to meet him, be his friends. He wouldn't be invisible.

Normal.

He could probably even pull off this variety of normal.

When his dad sat down next to him he must have been sitting there for an hour already. The stadium lights had finally shut down, leaving only the guide lights for the clean up crews to work by. They would probably finish cleaning the stands any minute now, but there were a lot of seats to check over.

"Good game," John announced quietly, staring out into the dark field. Dean looked at him a moment before following his gaze.

"It was all right I guess," he shrugged. His dad snorted.

"I had the general manager request a meeting tomorrow, to discuss your contract. Apparently word has gotten out that you're a Jack of all trades. They've decided that if you play all positions as well as you handle short then you're a sure bet."

"Jack of all trades? Where the hell did they get that idea?"

"Probably when you were mouthing off during the tryouts."

"They've only seen one game," Dean stated. "That's no where near enough to decide whether or not I'm that good a player."

"They know their business," John declared, folding his arms across his chest. You would never know by looking at him that he had a minimum of two guns and at least one sizable knife on his person, hidden beneath leather and denim. They sat a while in silence, before John spoke again. "I'll let them know you're breaking contract tomorrow. No point in leading them on."

Dean nodded. "Yes sir."

"Then I've got a job lined up in Pennsylvania. We'll head out tomorrow night."

"Yes sir." There was some more silence, something that was beginning to become more and more common between them.

"You played well," he announced, his voice softer then usual, lacking its normal bite, almost sounding sad and Dean stiffened. "You're hand eye coordination is top-notch and your speed was excellent. They would have been lucky to have you," his dad announced gruffly, and then stood. "I'm going to go and start scouting the area, make sure people are leaving like they should."

Dean nodded, because what could he say to that? After his dad had left Dean leaned his head back and took a moment to close his eyes. His bruises pulled uncomfortably, his head still hurt and his adrenalin rush from the game had long since dissipated, but he had had a night of glory and a week of what could be considered a vacation. And his dad had been impressed. Normal, apparently, he could do. But it was overrated, and now he had a job to focus on. He stood and headed back to the now empty locker room (thank god) and changed back into his own clothes, slipping his knife into his boots and another he clipped to the inside of his jacket.

He stuffed the iron nails into a pocket and stared at his satchel, well aware that there was a sawed off shot gun loaded with rock salt sitting inside it, waiting to be used. His fingers twitched with the urge to pull it out, but it was still too soon and he couldn't risk running into anyone while carrying it around. At least not yet. It was just after eleven and the last of the staff would be clearing out, leaving only the night crew to guard the premises. He hoped Moira had had the sense to take the night off.

He grabbed his walkman turned EMF detector and turned it on, putting one ear piece in as he began to scout out the area. The place was freaky after hours man, with low to no lighting, and his footsteps were too loud in the hollow silence. He slipped into a niche when he heard one of the security guards, whom was making no effort to mask the clicking of their steps, coming his way and then passing right by. Dean checked his watch: it was almost midnight. Moira had mentioned that the two men weren't killed until after midnight, but other then that she gave no specific time frame.

He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial.

"Dad? What's your status?"

"Buildings pretty much been cleared out as far as I can tell. Only the night crew is left."

"All right. Moira mentioned that it didn't appear until after midnight, so I'm going to head out to the field and get started."

"Understood. There's a few areas I need to check and then I'll join you."

"Right," he went to hang up but was called back by his dad.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't get sloppy," he ordered, which was as close to 'be careful' as he ever said. Dean hung up and went back to the locker room to grab the shot gun and a flash light. He moved to the field, where all the lights were now off, only the ethereal glow of the stars and surrounding city lights outlined the place. He stopped for a minute to allow his eyes to adjust as much as possible. He didn't want to use the flash light until he had too, because he didn't need to deal with any security right now.

The air was still, the wind from earlier dying down to nothing. He could tell that condensation had already dewed up the grass and soaked the benches, and cursed quietly because it meant that his knees were going to be wet before the night was over. He hated that shit. He checked his watch, 12:11am. His dad would be here any moment and Dean wanted to get the show on the road so he began heading out onto the field, as silent as a ghost himself.

When he arrived at the general area of the grass he had to pull out the flashlight, searching the ground quickly as his other hand carefully gripped his weapon. There it was. He turned off the light and knelt down beside it, now able to see its faint outline as he knew where exactly to look. He put the gun and light by his knee, and for the first time he could feel a chill in the air as he worked, noting how it tried to sink into his bones. The cold spot hadn't been present earlier, but the EMF was going like crazy, just as it had that morning. He turned it off and pulled out the nails. A pentagram eh? No problem.

He shoved the first nail into the brown, dead ground, thankful that it went in without too much difficulty. His fingers tingled where he touched the metal, but that was normal for him; he had always been more sensitive then most when it came to these types of powers. When he pushed the second nail into the earth he thought he heard a cry somewhere in the distance, felt the cool air blow across the skin on his neck. He quickly shoved two more through the dirt in quick succession when he heard something behind him. He grabbed the gun and twisted, pointing with a steady hand for any sign of the ghost. He didn't see it.

Where the hell was his dad? It wasn't like him to take so long.

He kept a grip on the gun as he pushed the fifth nail into the ground. This time he definitely heard a moaning in the stands, like an old oak caught in a windstorm that was too strong for it. He moved to stand, but never made it that far as something hard slammed into his back, knocking him down with a pained grunt. The gun was kicked out of his hand and he had no idea where the last nail went as he struggled to get his breath. He heard harsh breathing around him.

"Well, isn't this interesting?" Markson's voice carried through the still night, masking the groaning in the stands. "Lose your way out of the stadium tonight Davey boy?"

"Markson, you don't want to do this," Dean growled, pulling himself painfully to his hands and knees, his shoulders complaining loudly. Shit, that's the second time this guy had gotten the jump on him in two nights. Dean looked around for his gun but he couldn't see it in the dark.

"Don't you be telling me what it is that I want," the man growled and Dean was suddenly lying face first in the dirt again, having had his arms kicked out from under him. The one that kicked him laughed, a quick bark of a sound. It looked like Markson had brought his trusty dogs along for some fun. "What you can tell me is what the hell you're up to out here. You play one game in this stadium and you think you have free range of the place is that it?"

"Listen Markson," Dean heard the wailing increase. "I'm just here to do my job, okay? You need to let me finish what I came here to do," he ordered, dropping his voice so he sounded commanding. It didn't work, though he could sense one of the guys with the bats shifting uneasily behind him.

"You don't get to make demands, you little shit. I run this place, not you. Now tell me what you're doing here, after midnight, with a goddamn shotgun sitting in the dark. What the hell is wrong with you!" He demanded, stepping forward and kicking out again. Okay, that was the last shot he was going to take. The next one Dean was fighting back; he'd had enough of this shit.

"Dude, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Trust me when I say you don't want a piece of this! We're not alone out here," he warned, and Markson chuckled.

"Well that's a bit obvious, but if you're waiting for that manager of yours to show you're going to be waiting a while. He had a little appointment to keep," Dean looked sharply through the dark at Markson, seeing the white gleam of his eyes and teeth.

"If you hurt him, you son-of-a-bitch, you will not be walking out of here in one piece," he growled dangerously and pulled himself to his knees. He could see that it was Reid and Harrison standing to each side of him, and Harrison was tightly gripping a bat. There was another eerie cry echoing through the stands now, and it sounded like a man sobbing, pleading; it sent a cold shiver down Dean's spine. Shit, he didn't have time for this crap.

"What the hell was that?" Reid jerked around, looking for the source of the cry.

"That is what I am here to take care of," Dean declared.

"Shut up, it's just the wind." Markson growled and stepped forward to boot Dean in the face. This was it! He grabbed the leg as it came at him and twisted, knocking the guy hard to the ground. But it wasn't easy as Markson had a tonne of muscle and Dean's back was screaming in protest as he quickly stood. He sidestepped Harrison as he swung the bat at him, just avoiding a hard knock to his shoulder, and punched him hard in the face, ripping the bat out of his hands at the same time.

But he had underestimated both Reid's speed and Markson's reflexes as the big man was already back on his feet and grabbing Dean from behind. Freaking athletes! The wind picked up around them, ripping suddenly at Dean's clothes and through his hair. The bat fell to the ground and Reid got in a lucky shot before Dean snapped his head back into Markson's face. He broke the suddenly loosened grip and elbowed him in the gut, and then kicked out at Reid, connecting solidly with his stomach.

"I don't have time for this!" he snapped at the air, his attention suddenly diverted as a pale figure appeared and disappeared just outside their little party. Crap, he was here. Where the hell was his shot gun?

"Make the time," Harrison growled, now back on his feet and grabbing at Dean again. Reid lunged in to take his other arm and Dean stepped hard into Harrison, throwing off his balance enough to rip one arm free when a dark blur appeared out of no where, taking the man down into the dirt hard, and then wailing a few good hits to his face to make sure he stayed down. Dean didn't waste any time taking care of Reid, who had been distracted by the new comer.

"David?" Will's familiar voice carried through the wind.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell is going on? Where did this wind come from?" A strangled scream came from their left as the spirit appeared, face bloodied and bashed in and wielding a bat that seemed to glow a pale murky brown, along with the rest of him. He raised the bat and swung hard at Dean, Markson screamed bloody murder as the spirit went after him next and Will stared stupidly.

"What the fuck is that! What is that?!" He demanded, backing up. God, what a circus.

"Will! Listen to me! I have a shot gun somewhere around here! Help me find it!" It was enough for the guy to pull his wits about him and drop to his knees. Had nobody else brought flashlights with them? Markson screamed again as the spirits bat connected with his leg, taking him down.

"Got it! I've got it!" Will yelled and shoved it into Dean's hands. Without hesitation he took aim and fired, watching in satisfaction as James's spirit disappeared with an angry hiss. "Oh good god, what the hell was that?" Will demanded again, but Dean was already turning away, dropping to his hands and knees.

"It was exactly what you think it was! Pay attention people! I had an iron nail, about four inches long. It's somewhere in the grass here and unless we find it James is going to come back and beat all our assess into the ground. Understand? So get looking!" His hand knocked into something hard. His flashlight! He turned it on and began scanning the ground, feeling the wind picking up again in earnest. He only had one shot left. This was the last time he didn't bother bringing spare shells on a hunt!

He could hear and see the others frantically searching the dark ground with him, though only he and Will were moving at a decent pace. Maybe they shouldn't have beaten the other guys so completely.

"When this is over," Will grunted, hands skimming through the grass, "you are going to explain to me what exactly it is you're doing here," he declared. "No bullshit."

"Sure, but you're going to have to buy me a beer."

"Buy _you_ a beer? I'm the one who saved _your_ ass!" Dean couldn't respond as he was suddenly hurtling through the air and landing with a heavy thump ten feet from where he had just been; a new blinding pain in his side was added to his list of ongoing injury. Whatever happened to the fun part of this mission?

"Dave!"

"Keep looking!" He grunted. He hadn't dropped the gun at least and he aimed and pulled the trigger before the next swing connected again. He lurched to his feet and staggered back over to them. Where the hell was it! It had to be here somewhere! A flashlight clicked on and Dean saw that Reid had at least found that. He looked paler then the ghost in its light, his eyes blown wide as he scrambled around frantically, muttering _holyshitholyshitholyshit_ under his breath.

The wind was picking up already, and any moment he would be back.

"Here!" Harrison yelled, and Reid whipped the light onto his face, forcing him to squint.

"Jam it in the center of the dead grass circle!" Dean ordered, moving towards him, but Harrison seemed to freeze, his eyes going wide at something behind Dean and he only had a chance to just duck out of the way as the bat swung right where his head used to be. After that it was a matter of staying just out of the angry, wailing spirits reach as it was hell bent on getting the guy who had shot him not once, but twice. He fell to the ground, and brought up his arms to block a blow that he couldn't dodge when the bat passed right through him. There was a puff of cold air all over his body and he heard a whistling sound before all that was left of their spirit was some dried red flakes falling to the ground. He breathed out a huge sigh of relief and dropped his aching head to the ground, taking a moment to just breathe.

"David!" Will suddenly dropped to his side, shaking his shoulder and Dean jerked away, glaring at him. He looked around, seeing Harrison exactly where he had been when he'd found the nail. Will followed his gaze, and then smiled weakly. "If you need to get something done…" he shrugged, and Dean laughed. He was so sore it was freaking ridiculous.

"Those hot tubs still on? Because I think I need to spend a decade in one," he announced and allowed Will to help pull him to his feet. Markson was standing now as well, staring at Dean like he was the crazy asshole intent on beating people to death and not the other way around. Dean marched up to him, seriously considering pulling one of his knives for dramatic effect, and paused only a few feet away.

"If you know what's good for you, you won't be mentioning any of this to the authorities," he instructed, and the man slowly nodded. "And if you come near me or anyone else again I will hear about it, and I won't restrain myself next time. Got it?" The man glared at him, so Dean decided to take matters into his own hands and planted his fist right in his ugly mug, dropping him like a stone. On the ground Markson decided to agree to what Dean was saying. Asshole.

Will handed him his shot gun and light, and they marched off the field in silence. Once in the locker room, where they could see exactly how bad off they were Will snorted and shook his head.

"You look like you went in the ring with King Kong."

"King Kong man? Dude, I could seriously take that pansy," he smirked, but it hurt his face so he stopped after a second. His cell phone rang.

"Dad!" He demanded, more then asked, waiting to hear his voice.

"Dean? You okay?"

"Peachy," he replied dryly. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm on my way over now. Had to convince the Security guard I wasn't attacking Moira in the basement. You need help?"

"Nah, it's done. You'd better grab the car instead. I'll meet you out by the side entrance." There was a pause on the other end before the man agreed, deciding to wait until later to ask his questions. Dean washed his face, and wiped the blood off his knuckles. He then packed up his locker with Will standing over his shoulder, still silent. He looked at the guy.

"You going to be okay?" He asked, truly concerned. Because let's face it, the guy had saved his ass, had been there for him just like he said he would.

"Yeah, just as soon as I get my head back on straight," he nodded at the bag Dean carried, now holding his weapons, glove and hat. There was no point in packing the uniform, it would just be a waste of trunk space. "Was that seriously a ghost out there? Because that is just…huh. You know?" Dean laughed humourlessly.

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, he's gone now. The place is safe," he shouldered the bag and indicated that they should leave, before security investigated the field themselves. "It should be fine to remove the nails from that patch of grass tomorrow. Just make sure you get all six of them."

"And this is what you do? Infiltrate baseball teams to get rid of the dead?" He was taking this rather calmly, and Dean quirked an eyebrow. Will shrugged, apparently reading his mind and smirking in return. "I think I'm still in shock at the confirmation that ghosts exist, and that they try to kill people apparently. Don't worry, I'll freak out about it later."

"Right." What else was there to say?

"So you're just going to pack it in? Drop the team?"

"What can I say man, I've already got a full time gig," he shrugged, hoping he masked the slight disappointment.

"That is seriously messed up."

"Only for normal people" he grinned. They stepped out into the cool night.

"Too bad. I was looking forward to racing your ass to the pro's," and his big toothy grin was back, a twinkle in his eyes until he looked at the Impala, rumbling a few meters away, lights still off. Suddenly the understanding that Dean was leaving for good seemed to hit home. "Give me your phone." Dean blinked.

"What?"

"Guy, you still owe me a beer and I'll be damned if you don't call me the next time you fly this way," he took Dean's phone and punched his number in before tossing it back, eyes serious. "I mean it, don't be a stranger. You ever need a place to crash or just want to toss the ball around, you call. It'd be a shame to let that arm go to waste."

Dean took the phone back slowly, and then nodded, trying to remain casual.

"Just remember, I'll expect you to put out on the first date," he grinned, a real smile because this odd friendship of only a few days did mean something to him. It meant more then any had in a long time actually.

"Asshole," Will declared, and Dean waved good-bye as he threw his stuff into the back seat of the Impala and slid into the front. His dad looked at him sideways before pulling away from the stadium. They didn't say anything important for the rest of the night. In the end, what was there to say?

The next day they cleaned their tools, reorganized the Impala and checked out of the hotel before lunch. Dean listened as his dad made a swift and gruffly apologetic call to the team's manager, telling them that 'Dave' would be unable to follow through with the contract. He had family obligations. Dean snorted from the passenger seat but at a look from his father didn't comment.

He kept the mitt, stuffing it into the back corner of the trunk, out of the way. If his dad asked about it he would just say it was decorative junk in case the trunk was ever searched. They didn't say much the entire way to Pennsylvania.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Man, I can not believe that you didn't even watch five minutes of the game with us. You are an overachieving geek my friend," Darryl laughed at him and Sam scowled back in response. It wasn't his fault he had a paper due the next day and couldn't spare a few hours to watch the season opener. It was their fault because they'd kept him out all day yesterday and he'd fallen behind schedule. Besides, he didn't even know the friend that they were rooting for. Some guy on the Indians that they knew apparently.

"Shut up. It's your fault I'm cramming this as it is," he threw an eraser at Darryl's head and hit him with perfect accuracy.

"Man, screw off. You're a big boy, you can make your own decisions," he playfully threw back the eraser before Sam heard him opening the beer Chris had just commandeered from the fridge. Sam ignored them, going back to work. A few more paragraphs and he'd be good for a conclusion. Another two hours and he'd be done, which would have gone faster if he hadn't been half listening to the game as he worked. From across the room the excited announcers rattled on about the game, pointing out some highlights for the fans.

"_It was an exciting game all around as far as season openers go, and what an entrance some of the new players made."_

"_Indeed you're right Jim. There was a strong showing of skill from both teams this evening but especially from two newcomers from the Indianapolis side. Will McRae had a note worthy last two innings as pitcher, with his average fast ball flying at ninety-six miles per hour he will no doubt be a contender for the big leagues in a few short years, if not sooner."_

"_And let's not count out David Young, a man that seems to have come right out of left field as far as his playing history is concerned. No one really knows what he is capable of yet, but it's rumoured that he can play more then one position just as well as his placement at shortstop."_

"_A Jack of all trades some people have already begun calling him and we look forward to following his career."_

"If that guy plays more then one position as well as he held short then he is going to fly up the ranks," Darryl commented randomly and Sam tuned out their noise to once again focus on his work. He had more important things to worry about then some random players skill sets anyway, such as finishing this damn essay so he could go see Jess. With that in mind he went back to work.

End.

I know some people were looking forward to a big showdown on the baseball diamond (in a game sense, not the ghostly sense), but I just couldn't seem to write the game right. It would have been boring and drawn out so I skipped that and went to the important part.

Needless to say I hope the story was enjoyable and not too over the top 

A huge thanks to everyone for all your encouraging comments! Rock on!


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